


Temper

by icewolfheartsmuffins



Series: Songs of the Stars [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Coming of Age, Dragons, Gen, Saving the World, Soul-Searching
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-06
Updated: 2017-03-06
Packaged: 2018-09-28 16:23:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10136576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icewolfheartsmuffins/pseuds/icewolfheartsmuffins
Summary: "Bring you forth the lovestruck mute who preys with vigor on his love, and set the sky alight with all who dare to struggle 'gainst our move. For we are they who own the night and all who dwell without us fall; we drink the mind-grapes formed of thought and wail a tumult on the wall."





	

_“You’re awake.”_

_No. She wasn’t. She was not awake. This was a dream._

_Her eyes lifted, seeing lips move, knowing what they said without hearing them. Her head turned, looking at the others._

_Words being said. Never mattered what they said, she knew._

_This was a dream. She wasn’t here. She wasn’t awake._

_Sunlight pierced through her eyelids, even as she closed them, the smell of the pines slipped into her head, the sound of a carriage’s wheels, the plodding of hooves, breathing, pleading. Breathless. Rope around her wrists, cutting into the flesh, rubbing the skin away. There would be blood when they were removed._

_Bound._

_Her eyes opened again, and her gaze was lifted to the sky, looking everywhere but the man who had leaned over to grasp her hand in a semblance of comfort, speaking words she could no longer hear._

_Why would she need comforting?_

_The trails down her cheeks…she could feel their warmth. Her hair stuck to her skin, and sometime along the ride, her head had bowed, her body slumped forward, leaning on her legs, silent, but body wracking sobs took her._

_This was a dream._

_It had to be. The divines couldn’t have been so cruel._

_A man was praying to them for help._

_The man holding her hand, rubbing the back of her palms with his thumb until she leaned back up, eyes once again lifted to the sky._

_She would not pray. Would not beg for their mercy, or their grace, and her lips parted as an order shook through the carriages, and the man praying began anew, and pleaded to her._

_She was not supposed to be here._

_He was not supposed to be here._

_A fault of circumstance. Bad luck._

_The corner of her lips turned up in a grim, sad parody of a smile. Her hair still stuck to her cheeks, and she pulled her hands free from the soldier who tried to give her comfort._

_Why would she need comfort?_

_Her palms wiped her face, and her eyes closed as the shadow of the stone slid over her._

_“I used to be sweet on a girl from here…”_

_The shadow of the mountain made her cold. The sort of cold that welled in from her stomach and spread through her body, threatened to make her eyes hot and tingle again._

_This was a dream, and it wasn’t._

_Everything was blurred. A hand gripped hers and pulled her to her feet, and she found herself numb, shuffling behind the man who tried to comfort her in this, their final moments, where she had arrived alone and took things quietly, knowing in the depths of her heart that no matter what would happen, it wouldn‘t end well._

_Sovngarde awaited, didn’t it?_

_Beckoned, ever closer. Distant echoes of the roars of lost warrior’s songs._

_She remembered nearly falling from the carriage. Eyes lifting to the man calling out the list, the begging one running, being shot down. He thought he could escape._

_Nobody escapes until the Divines made it so. Silly of him to even try._

_“Who are you?”_

_What a good question, though her answer, hoarse from her lips, didn’t matter. Maybe to him, given the look on his face, the way he was apologizing without saying sorry. To assure her she wasn’t on the list._

_It didn’t matter to the woman, the Imperial Captain. This Nord woman-child was seen, was caught in this company, there was no saying whether or not it was true._

_She took her place._

_She watched a man die bravely._

_She heard a sound that made her look up to the sky._

_It resonated with her bones, she felt it. Felt her blood boil. Felt the need to look up and scream back, though her voice caught in her throat in a bubble, came out as a cough, which was her doom._

_The words were a death sentence._

_Wood was on her neck, the smell of blood in her nose, smearing on her skin from the fearless man who had  treated his death like an inconvenience for the rest of his day._

_The sound came again, and eyes were on the headsman, and then on the shadow behind him._

_It landed. Shook the tower. The axeman fell, she was knocked from the platform, and he head buzzed, before she was hauled to her feet, pulled away into the safety of a tower as the sky broke open, as men screamed and shouted and fought against the creature that came from the sky. Dragon._

_Dragon._

**_Dragon._ **

 

___

 

The water was cold.

 

Clean, cold, and she splashed her face after flipping the tunic over the pole for it to dry, letting the sun soak it’s rays into the fabric, into her skin as she dipped herself further in, feet careful on the slick rocks. The water wasn’t so bad the longer she stayed in, though to any that wasn’t a Nord, it would be frigid. So that was in her favor.

 

Four days. Four days of waiting, of resting under the radar of Helgen’s attack, seeing if Imperial forces would slip by, four days of resting under the protection of strangers who had been kind to shelter her.

 

She dipped in the current, submerging, cleaning the grime of the forge, her faithful learning of the trade leaving her with the soot, the oils, the burns on her arms and the satisfaction of honing the weapon that was her salvation in the attack of the fort into something she could wield easily with practice.

 

Practice was needed. Ralof was kind about that. Pointers from a soldier.

 

He treated her kindly. He did on the carriage. Guided her through Helgen.

Her hand rubbed the facing marks on her wrists, and she pushed dark hair from her face, dipping her head back in the water, soaking, getting the soot and oil from it the best she could.

 

It probably wasn’t smart to bathe here, where the current by the mill’s dock was fast, footing perilous, but she was alone. Her privacy was assured.

 

“Tófa?”

 

Ah. _Was_ assured.

 

At least it was the mill’s owner, and not her brother, that had come this time.

 

They had been kind.

 

She said nothing though, only looked back at the shore where Gerdur was holding up the tunic and leggings, staring at her expectantly.

 

Tófa blinked slowly, before staring back at the water, before slipping out of the river, taking the dry clothes and pulling them on her body, uncaring of the way the fabric stuck to her damp skin.

 

“Your armor is ready, Alvor let me know. He said the fit should be good now, and you did well for your attempt at it.”

 

Oh. She nodded once, before standing up, pulling her wet hair back, tying it into a braid with a strip of leather, expression placid.

 

“Now that it’s finished, would you speak to the Jarl of Whiterun? There should be no more Imperial forces taking the road, I think it would be safe, and the Jarl needs to know.”

 

Her lips moved, and she blinked, before realizing nothing came out of her mouth, given the bemused look on Gerdur’s face. That happened a lot. She thought she spoke, but it was too quiet. Her voice rose, and it came out slightly low and husky, almost hoarse.

 

The amount of times she had spoken audibly in the last four days could be counted on one hand.

 

“Yes. Is Ralof headed to Windhelm soon?”

 

“Soon. He’s going to stay a few more days, and take the long route, and see if he can find fellow soldiers from Helgen in the camps scattered by the mountains.”

 

That made sense. Yes, that made sense.

 

“Come along, I’ll get you some lunch for you to set out with, it’s a few hours journey on foot, and you’ll find yourself with hunger down the road. I also have the gold for the wood you’ve chopped earlier. Come on.”

 

Her lips moved, but the words fell in the air with a whisper.

 

It didn’t matter. She had made it clear she was thankful.

 

___

 

The rocks tumbled under her boots, and she slid down the face of the hill carefully, hand on her hip to keep her axe from jostling too much, other hand on the satchel tied to her belt, trying to keep the septims from clinking too loudly.

 

She should have remained on the road, but this way seemed so much shorter, and with the sight of soldiers in Imperial uniforms, as well as the fact she was already committed to the action.

 

It was a bad idea.

 

Her hair was in her vision, having been pulled from her braid by a need to use the leather thong and secure her axe more, and let her hair fly everywhere like a witch had cursed it with a mind of its own.

 

The rocks were loose in the soil, a wrong step nearly had Tófa falling on her face as the stone slid out from under her boots, her body throwing itself backwards to compensate, landing hard on her ass, and sliding roughly four feet before her heels dug into the steep face to slow her down.

 

This was also a bad idea, as the force caused her to pitch back onto her feet suddenly and practically run down the face of the hill to avoid falling. Again.

 

At least it wasn’t much longer before the ground evened out, and the extra momentum carried her a dozen or so yards, in sight of a farm, hazy figures in the dying light. A wall. Torches. A tree, but not a tree, now that her hand was up and cutting the glare from her vision.

 

A giant. People fighting it. She saw, got closer, hopping over the field wall, if only to get a better look. Never had she seen one up close. Heard stories. It was as large as the stories, and its head turned to her, the club raised, and Tófa slid her axe out as it headed her way, ready, shifting her foot back, arm ready. The angle was tiring for her muscles, not accustomed to holding such an unbalanced sort of weapon.

 

The giant never made it to her, turning at the women that had followed, one firing an arrow into the shoulder of the beast, another slamming a shield into its leg, whirling away and striking her sword to the thigh of the beast, moving back as the club swung for her. There was a man running forward as well, a great sword held as he swung mightily.

 

Tófa’s grip tightened on the axe.

 

Her blood boiled. She wanted to join in. She wanted to join in badly, but she would be outmatched, and the news of a dragon had to be reported to the Jarl. He would have to send guard to Riverwood, or not, but she had a request from Gerdur, and she had to relay it.

 

The axe was heavy in her hand, and she slid it back into the holder on her belt, feeling the ground tremble as the giant fell, closing her eyes against the sound, expression calm.

 

She expected it to fall. Her hand brushed wild hair from her face, only looking up when she felt eyes on her. Judging eyes. Hers raised to the face of a fierce looking woman, before her eyes slid elsewhere, hearing the voice.

 

“That’s taken care of. No thanks to you, though you had the opening.”

 

Why did she feel so ashamed? There was nothing to be ashamed about, and yet her lips moved, though it was hard to tell if she had spoken at all. The other two were behind the redhead, paying more attention to the dead giant, though the man looked over the way a couple times.

 

 Apparently, she _had_ spoken. Or at least, the woman kept speaking as if the younger Nord had answered.

 

“Certainly not, we didn’t need help, but a true warrior would have relished in the opportunity to take on a giant. That’s why I have my Shield-Siblings here with me.”

 

This time, Tófa said nothing, just blinked at the woman, before glancing at the others, the man nodding gruffly, the woman by him smiling widely and waving.

 

But silence deepened the rift between the older redhead, and the dark haired woman-child, who was looking somewhere around the woman’s knees at this time. Mouth was dry, her voice was stuck, and her lips moved, but no sound came out. A glance up, and the painted woman looked almost amused, though mainly irritated.

 

“I guess not all are cut out to be a part of the Companions. But perhaps, if you find your spine to walk the hall among us, Kodlak might judge you.”

 

That seemed to be it, and the woman turned to leave, gesturing sharply to the others. The woman left, chattering, but the man approached her first, looking down at her, making Tófa feel small in comparison. Which she was, the man was huge, and he spoke gruffly, but not…unkindly.

 

“She’s tough, but you look like you’re strong. You should come to Jorrvaskr, see about becoming a Companion.”

 

Her surprise must have been on her face, but it was hidden quickly. Either way, he had turned to leave before it was seen, and she looked up at the walls of the city nearby…but still far.

 

She could have walked by them, with them, asked questions.

 

Instead, she walked alone.

 

___

 

Tófa was aware she didn’t look reputable, by any means, at least right now.

 

Dark hair wild around her face, though not nearly so bad as she had slid her fingers through it, taming down the worst of the tangles, the odd placing. Tall, like any Nord, and pretty, with a slim figure and an expression like dark clouds, though blue eyes were refusing to meet faces of any who spoke to her. Her fingers tugged the fur at the end of her tunic sleeves, before pressing on the leather lacing of her chest armor, the stiff hide dirty from the spill she had taken on the steps up to the palace. And yes, her apparent inability to speak loudly to those who demanded it of her.

 

The Dunmer housecarl had snapped at her for not speaking up already, before the Jarl had called them over, and was leaning forward to try and hear her words.

 

Lips pressed into a grim line for a moment, before the blue eyes glanced up at the skull above the throne, voice hoarse as she tried, so hard, to speak up. For the fourth time.

 

“The dragon attack. Gerdur sent me, she thought Riverwood might be attacked and requests aid.”

 

Yes, the dragon attack. Helgen had been news by know, and going through the market place, people were wondering if the sighting of the dragon had been a hysterical rumor or a true sighting. Theories were abound. Stormcloak attack, spell casters from the Winterhold College being employed to drive out the Imperial forces from that fort, a group of Stormcloak Hagravens. A group of Stormcloak Dremora. It escalated into more and more fantastic theories.

 

“A dragon. Are you sure? How could you know?”

 

It was a good question. Her eyes shifted to the Jarl, and looked away quickly.

 

“Because I saw it. I had a good view.”

 

As the Imperials were about to cut off her head. That part was left out, but her spine straightened at the sudden flurry of conversation between the Jarl, the housecarl, and the steward. No doubt it would be a bit of time before there was an answer, and the dark haired woman started to back up, ready to take her leave.

 

“What say you now, Proventus?” “My lord, we should send troops to Riverwood at once. It’s in the most immediate danger.” “The Jarl of Falkreath will view that as a provocation! He’ll assume---”

 

It was too much. Backing up. One step at a time. Letting them speak. Let them discuss. She was tired, it was dark, and her message was delivered.

 

It really shouldn’t have been a surprise when she left as quietly as she had stood.

 

___

 

 

“Saadia, wake up dear!”

 

“Yes mum!”

 

She had just sat down, pushing her hair from her face, on a bench before the fire. The warmth ran through her skin, but the chill that Tófa had wasn’t so easily quashed. A pinching feeling around her middle, though that was from the need for food, Gerdur’s meal had long been devoured.

 

It took her a few moments to realize that the Redguard woman was staring at her, obviously waiting for an answer to a question that Tófa hadn’t heard, too focused on the pinching feeling in her center. Bright blue eyes blinked a couple times, and her brows furrowed, her hand raising, and making a pathetic gesture. Her lips moved, but nothing came out. As normal.

 

She needed to work on that.

 

“Just anything then?”

 

Oh thank _Talos._ The woman, Saadia, got it, and a smile, or the ghost of one, was on her lips, a nod. Her mouth remained firmly shut.

 

“No problem dear. Twelve septims and I’ll get you something warm. Might hold off the sore throat.”

 

Okay, maybe she didn’t completely understand, but that was fine. Tófa was happy to get something that might kill the cold in her middle, and fished out twelve gold pieces, and giving them to the Redguard, turning her attention to the fire, balefully listening to the background noise.

 

A lute strumming, the bard singing a popular song. A woman calling her daughter ‘Little Fairy’. Tankards clanking. Laughter. Bowls clattering. People singing along with the bard, who had changed to an older song. A squabble between a woman and a man. She was losing herself into the background. Eyes closed.

 

There was a clatter next to her, and something warm was pressed into her lap, hands grasping it automatically. Warm bowl, and blue eyes opened, looking up at the woman. The smell of honey hit her nose from the tankard net to her. Mead. Warm mead, warm stew, fingers finding the spoon and stirring. Meat. Some sort of vegetable. But it was hot, and her lips moved to form the thanks, the sound coming out small. But it was heard, and that was important.

 

Saadia left her, and Tófa enjoyed her meal, not bothering anybody else. That was how she liked it. Surrounded by warmth, not exactly on the outside, but not in the midst of it.

 

That squabble was getting louder. She could hear it now, clearly. There was the shattering of glass, a bottle of mead, no doubt. She looked up, staring over at the deadlock.

 

A blonde man in leather armor, a woman in steel plate, gripping the front off his armor from over the table. The bottle was on the floor, shattered, the mead pooling. A fist flew, caught the man across the face, and with the steel, everybody flinched. The sound was sickening, the man was already bruising, but the woman didn’t let him go, reeling back for another power punch.

 

“ _Uthgerd! Stop this at once! Torvor’s not in the right for a brawl!”_

Dark hair was in her vision, but Tófa was moving as the woman was snarling something she couldn’t hear at the bard, and hands gripped the gauntlets, trying to force the fingers open. The poor man looked like he was nearly about to pass out before the hit, if the way his eyes were glazed over were any indication. Tófa struggled, the woman’s grip was something, before it wasn’t, and the younger Nord had far too much weight, catching the man, who was slurring words, spitting out some blood in the mead.

 

She stiffened a bit as she stumbled, the man slinging an arm around her and muttering,  in her face, trying very hard to not drop him while getting her face as far away from his as possible.

 

Somebody spoke to her. Wait. What? She looked up, blue eyes searching, before looking at the owner of the establishment, who was staring at her.

 

“Can you do that?”

 

Lips moved, voice came out hoarse and small.

_“Do what?”_

“Take him back to Jorrvaskr? It’s a district up, you can’t miss it. If you do, you’ll have a warm bed ready here.”

 

Oh. Um. Did she have a choice? The man was leaning on her so much, and Tófa bit her lip hard, trying to find a way to say no when she was already walking out the door, careful to keep him from fallowing over his own feet. What was his name? To…Torvor. That was it.

 

The steps up to the next district were something interesting to navigate, and her axe clanged hard on her hip as she stumbled and nearly brought them both down because he caught his toe on the stone. A grunt left her lips, and Torvor’s hand was on her free hip, pulling her down as he pulled himself up, slurring again…she couldn’t understand a word he was saying. Between the swollen mouth, the level of drunk…

 

It was a miracle they made it up the steps, though going around the giant, dying tree, looking for a mead hall, and spotting…more steps. Of course.

 

It should not be this hard. It really shouldn’t, though whether the young Nord was thinking about trying to get him up another set of steps and into a building with doors that were large and presumably thick and heavy. All she had wanted was to eat, sleep, and be on her way back to Riverwood. Perhaps set up there, work at the forge or lumber mill.

 

There was a feeling in the center of her gut that this was not going to be happening anytime soon, and the side of her fist slammed on the wood. The action did little but hurt her skin, smart the bones, and frustrate her. They couldn’t hear her from outside, because they were making enough noise that it could be heard out here.

 

Tófa lifted her foot and kicked the door, hoping it would make more noise. A pause. Another kick. And another. Trying to make more noise than the last. Almost slightly hysterical, if an action could be considered thus.

 

Torvor shifted against her, slamming his palm on the wood as she kicked it, and the sudden movement threw her off balance, dropping forward, the man landing on her, breath rushing from her lungs in an indignant, slightly frustrated huff. If such actions could sound in such a way. Nails dug into the dirt, eyes closed, teeth ground together…

 

The door on the other side opened, the sounds of songs of victory spilling out into air, laughter greeting her ears.

 

“Torvor, you great lout. Which poor soul hauled your sorry ass back here this time?”  


The voice was female. Vaguely familiar. Then very familiar as it clicked in her head, when the man was hauled off her. Tófa closed her eyes tightly, pushing herself to her feet, staring down at her armor, and rubbing it with a fur lined sleeve.

 

“Ah, yes, you. I remember you. The whelp from the farm.”

 

Her hand came up, brushed dark hair from her eyes, and the younger Nord nodded once, before turning to walk away, before a hand clasped her shoulder. The grip was strong, and the blue eyed Nord froze under the contact.

 

“Halt for a moment. You hauled Torvor’s drunken weight all the way up here, did you? From experience, I can tell you that takes more conviction than most tasks. Maybe you do have a spine, like a proper warrior.”

 

Right now, she felt the need to flee. This was uncomfortable, even when the hand was lifted, and Tófa turned her head a bit, trying to judge if she would be able to leave. The woman gave off the air of silent orders and common sense.

 

Blue eyes met hard green ones, and the dark haired Nord quickly averted her gaze, looking somewhere over the left shoulder where Torvor was being hauled in by the Imperial woman and a Dunmer man. Lips parted, but her mouth closed just as quickly, gaze flicking to the redhead briefly, then back away…it was enough to assess the look on the woman’s face.

 

Contemplative. Judging.

 

“That rabble in there is close to clearing out. Come back tomorrow and talk to Kodlak.”

 

Wait. What? Why? Did she offend?

 

It must have been on her face, the questions, and she stiffened as the woman circled her. It was like being sized up by a hunter.

 

“Kodlak can judge your worth, the fire in your heart, but I feel there is potential to mold you into a fine warrior, worthy of this title of Companion.”

 

Tófa bit her lips slightly, trying to find the way to say no. To refuse, even though she was already nodding once, turning to head down back to the Bannered Mare, the warm bed within.

 

And later, crawling into that bed, smelling the clean hay stuffed into the case that served as a mattress, burrowed under the thick wool blankets, eyes closing, the finality of her actions hit her.

 

There would be no going back if she walked those steps in the morning. The action would be a commitment. Her expression relaxed slightly, thinking of the morning. Her choice would be then.

 

For now, it was time to rest.


End file.
